Garnet Tears
by searinox
Summary: I had used to make him force me every time, back when I was strong. He would grapple me to the floor, relishing the sensation of my fingernails tearing across his skin, taking the same depraved pleasure he was there to force upon me. Then he’d pour the si


**Garnet Tears**

I had given up resisting sleep. It was pointless- I could never win that battle against my own body. Sleep was the only way I had of measuring time in the windowless cell I they had been keeping me in- I didn't want to give up my only means of telling the hour.

That night, he entered my sleep and drew me away, as he did every night, to the same room he took me to every night. It was fashioned like a room in Hogwarts, with tapestries over the stone walls and thick rugs on the floor- a sick perversion of the life we both once lead. I don't know why he creates the room to look like this, when he always shoves aside the rugs in search of the cold, hard stone.

As always, I had to wait for him. It was nearly five minutes of waiting, of terrified anticipation, with nothing but the night sky and the far-away, dark outline of trees outside the window. When he finally opened the door, it was, as always, to the accompaniment of silent footsteps, his cloak making no noise when it brushed against him.

I shrank back involuntarily as he entered with the same frothing, smoking goblet he always had with him when he came. He smiled as he set the pewter vessel on the stand by the bed, beckoning me over to drink it. I stood up from the chair by the window I always appeared in, knowing that if I didn't drink it of my own volition, he would force it down me- not pleasant.

I had used to make him force me every time, back when I was strong. He would grapple me to the floor, relishing the sensation of my fingernails tearing across his skin, taking the same depraved pleasure he was there to force upon me. Then he'd pour the sickly stuff down my throat, the foul-tasting liquid burning my esophagus, and then- and then I'd _feel_. Then I'd truly begin to hate myself.

I would no longer cry out in strangled misery from the pain in my limbs as he held me down with all of his weight. A carnal grin would smear itself obscenely across my face, my body betraying me so utterly that I hated myself far more than I hated him. I would gasp in perverted delight when his blades came out of their twin leather sheaths, wanting the sensation of the silver harbingers of pain flowing through my flesh, detesting the abomination I had been turned into while pleading for him to cut deeper, begging for more of it.

And then, when he had sated himself with my blood- the blood that, in the end, I was happy to let him have because I didn't deserve to have any more of it in my body, not when my body betrayed the life-giving fluid so- then he would seek his pleasure in ways equally debauched, ravishing me again and again until my sick body moaned in disgusting pleasure.

So I did not resist him when he guided me to the chalice holding the vile concoction that would make me feel all of this. Hating myself ten times more for it, I began to shake- hating it partially out of fear, weakness; but hating it, too, because it was not completely out of fear.

There was a small part of me so heinously warped as to look forward to what was to come, the pleasure I would be forced to get out of it. And so I drank it, and that part of me took over.

He took out his blades and began to slice, and I, ever obedient to his whims, gasped in pleasure and begged for the keen edges to cut more, cut deeper, rend my flesh from bone, rip my body apart until I was left in continual climax from the mind-tearing, unimaginable pain. And when there was no more skin left to cut, no more blood left to spill, he used my body to satisfy his other pleasures. While a small, dominant part of me eagerly took part in that masochistic obscenity that was a dream, most of me lay trapped in my mind, forced to endure this, hating myself as violently as I hated he who inflicted it upon me.

Eventually he left, as always, when he had taken his sick pleasure- and when I woke, as always, it was to rivers of blood running from my body to the floor of my desolate cell, and I didn't care at all. I was glad to see it go.

Someone would come with some sort of meal- mostly an insult to the term "edible"- and I would eat it, mechanically, knowing that I should let myself just starve to death; and instead of complying, I'd fill myself with sustenance so that I could bleed some more the next night- and the night after- and the night after, until either the girl who was once named Ginny faded away into true, intangible nothingness, or the boy who was once named Draco tired of his sadistic game.

(A/N: This was originally written without the first or last paragraphs, and was meant to take place in Hogwarts, with Tom Riddle sort of reaching into Ginny's dreams.)


End file.
